


News And Weather, Or Not

by Omorka



Category: Boat that Rocked | Pirate Radio (2009)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-22
Updated: 2010-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-13 23:03:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omorka/pseuds/Omorka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even a rock-and-roll station operating on the shady side of the law needs a news-and-weather man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	News And Weather, Or Not

**Author's Note:**

  * For [foundwanders](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foundwanders/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide; have a treat! More character study/missing backstory than plot; hope that's okay.

“It’s a stunning plan, really,” Quentin murmured, more in the direction of his cigarette than at John.

“I would say,” John replied carefully, “that it’s a good deal more than a plan, seeing as you’ve gone and bought the boat.”

“Oh, well, yes, _that._ ” Smoke wafted upward as Quentin took a long drag. Was his suit even a little damp? His shoes certainly were, though the layers of impeccably applied polish were doing a good job of beading the water off. “Yes, that’s a done deal. And I’ve lined up a decent set of DJs, at least to start with.” He tipped a flicker of grey into the ashtray and propped his elbow on the table. “But it’s not a real radio station with just music, you know.”

“But I thought that was the point,” John protested. “I mean, I’m not as big a fan, well, I’d say I recognize the popular _songs,_ but not necessarily the bands - but what I mean is, I thought you meant to play the music that isn’t getting its fair share of radio time. Specifically, the rock ‘n roll music.” His plate was empty, the salad and soup long gone; he picked up half a roll and toyed with it.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Quentin drawled, the cigarette getting shorter in his hands. “That’s the _focus_ , you see, but the focus by itself,” and he gestured with both hands as if he were cradling a football, “isn’t the whole of the thing. A proper radio station needs certain things.”

“Live performances?”

“Perhaps later. A bit hard to do on a boat,” Quentin conceded.

John pressed his lips together. “Advertisements.”

That got an enthusiastic nod. “Very much so. I’ve got a few lined up already - mostly record stores, but I’d like to diversify.”

The dinner roll broke into two pieces; John dropped one. “So - what else?”

“I’d like for the populace to treat us just the same as they would the BBC,” Quentin went on, “by which I mean they won’t feel the need to change the channel when they need other services. So we’ll have to provide a little of everything.” A final curl of smoke rose from the end of the cigarette as the ember fell off, unnoticed. “And that includes the non-music end of a radio station.” He sighed gently as John blinked at him. “Your background’s in journalism, as I remember?”

“I’ve been working for a local newspaper, yes. Well, before they folded like a towel.” John’s eyes widened as he caught on. “Wait, you want me to recommend you a newscaster?”

“No,” Quentin said carefully, “not to recommend one, exactly.” He parked the last inch of the cigarette in the ashtray and leaned forward. “I was hoping I could offer you a job.”

\---

Angus blinked heavily against the stiff breeze and leaned back, both hands gripping the front rail of the tug as if he were afraid he’d blow away. “That’s it?”

“That is, in fact, it.” Quentin discarded the soggy end of another cigarette over the side and gestured grandly. “What do you think of her?”

“Well,” Angus started, “it’s a bit rubbish, isn’t it?”

“A bit rubbish?” Quentin echoed, unbelievingly.

Gavin shook his head, once, hard. “Not even close. I’d say it’s a floating piece of shite. Quentin,” he continued, “how much did you pay for that heap?”

Quentin looked at the rapidly approaching bulkhead and sighed. “I assure you, the damage is almost all cosmetic.”

“Almost?” squeaked John.

Bob cleaned the spray off of his glasses and peered owlishly upwards. “What’s it like on the inside?” he asked, more or less in Quentin’s direction.

The tug veered to the port side. “Well, you’ll have a grand opportunity to find out, won’t you?” Quentin answered, sounding just a touch peevish. “That’s what you’re here for, after all.”

Gavin reached for the ladder. “If it smells like fish, I’m out,” he said flatly.

“She doesn’t smell like _fish_ ,” Quentin protested, following him up. “Mostly she smells like motor oil.” He paused as he climbed onto the main deck, turning around to offer a trembling Angus a hand. “And diesel fumes,” he added, sniffing lightly.

“I’d say more diesel than anything,” John chimed in, hoping that he was being helpful.

Quentin pushed open a door that was almost too short for him. It would definitely have knocked Gavin’s hat off, if he’d had it on. “Well, come on, then.”

Bob trailed after them, glancing around at what looked like the galley. “And, um, where would the main broadcast booth be?”

Quentin led them down a short hallway into what had probably been the navigation room; a pair of faded maps were still posted on the wall. John found himself pondering the depths of the North Sea while Quentin started describing where the shelves of records would stand, where the microphones and soundboards would go, and which parts of the room would be encased in soundproof glass. _The currents aren’t important,_ he reminded himself. _The ship won’t be going anywhere._

“Of course,” Quentin finished, “this is all dependent on the antenna being installed. She’ll look a bit like a tall ship when it’s finished, with a mast the likes of which no boat has ever seen.” He paused to take in the imaginary scene he’d described. “No sails, of course.” Slowly, he turned around. “Er, where’s Bob gotten himself to?”

“Ducked out somewhere around the mixing board,” Gavin drawled, sounding bored. “Well, if it all pans out with the installation, I’m in. It’ll be as sweet a rig as my last gig, and the boss will only be half as much an arse.”

Angus looked around wildly. “He left? When did he leave?”

“Easy to miss, that one,” Quentin sighed.

John turned around and ducked back down the corridor. “I think,” he said carefully, “that I heard someone on the stairs.”

Quentin brushed past him. “Looking for his living quarters, then. He’s a little like a badger, that way; you’ll have to excuse him.”

\---

The glass on the sound booth was a shiny as it was likely to ever get. It did its job, though; from inside you couldn’t tell there was a squall raging outside.

Well, you could, John admitted silently. It wasn’t as if the floor weren’t lurching back and forth alarmingly; the cables swayed despite the lack of moving air. But you couldn’t hear the howling wind from in here.

“Ninety percent humidity, eighty percent chance of rain, winds from the north-northeast at twenty to thirty miles per hour,” he said to no one in particular as he exited the booth, catching the door as it swung.

“Right on target, as usual,” Quentin said with half a grin. “I’d say you’re as ready for opening day as anyone.” He glanced back as Angus dropped a box of props. “Readier than most.”

“It’d be nice,” John admitted, “if we had a teletype for the wire service out here. But,” he continued as Quentin flinched at the idea of yet another expense, “I can’t imagine we’ll be doing too many scoops. The regular news sources will do just fine.”

“Are you going to miss the man-on-the-street reporting, then?” Quentin seemed concerned, despite his distractions.

John shrugged. “You can’t really miss what you never had. The newspapers weren’t a good fit, and I’m not exactly the right sort for a beat reporter.” He straightened the tie that no one off the boat would ever see; it still made him feel more like a real journalist with it on. “I’ll just have to settle for being the anchor, hmm?”

Quentin gave him a satisfied nod. “Right, then. We’re going to start broadcasting bright and early at eight. You’ll be giving your first brief on the hour, at nine.” He glanced out the window and frowned slightly. “Let’s hope you’ll have a kinder forecast. It’d be nice to start with sunshine, or at least scattered clouds.”

“I’ll be ready,” John answered, “but I can’t promise anything about the weather.”

 _On the hour,_ he thought as he picked his way back to his cabin. _Nice ring to that._


End file.
